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HOMu LIFE OF LIBERTY HALL. URING the early seventies the writer came on a visit to middle Georgia, and bringing with him a leter of introduction to the Honorable Alex ander H. Stephens, from one of his most intimate friends, Richard Malcomb Johnston. A morning’s ride from At lanta brought him to the quaint old D L- —. . I town of Crawfordville. Walking from the station along a well beaten path, through a 'grove of trees, many of them planted by the hands of Mr. Stephens, he reached an old fashioned coun try home with modest pretensions, and knocked for admittance. The door was promptly opened by the negro body-servant of Mr. Stephens, and an nouncing my name, ,1 was led through the hallway into the rear annex of the house; through the li brary and into the presence of the Sage of Liberty Hall. My greeting was cordial and I was assured that at Liberty Hall I would be expected to make my self at home, and must remain as long as it was my pleasure to do so. It was a unique household. Parson O’Neill, a personal friend of Mr. Stephens, was housekeeper, old Harry, the body-servant, was chambermaid. There were no women about the house, although there may have been a colored wom an who presided over the kitchen. Several young men, the sons of personal friends of Mr. Stephens, were taking a law course under his wise tutelage, and were receiving such rare instruction as was scarcely obtainable at a university. So the entire household was masculine; and while no feminine touch was seen, the ordering of all things at Liberty Hall was as careful and tasteful as if it were being presided over by an accomplish ed lady housekeeper. Those young law students brightened the life of Mr. Stephens, and kept him in touch with develop ing young manhood. And if any of these young men are now successful lawyers in Georgia or some far-away state, they doubtless look back upon those golden days at Liberty Hall; those law lectures and Shakespearean readings, in which Mr. Stephens would throw such a flood of light upon “the text” as gave them a rare insight into the workings of the genius that could evolve such characters as Hamlet or King Lear, Antonio or Shylock. The writer begged for the privilege of hearing Mr. Stephens in one of his readings, but he de clined, saying they were only for the edification of his students, and thus he was deprived of a rare treat. On the afternoon of the day I arrived at Liberty Hall, I was sitting with Mr. Stephens in his cham ber, for in this one room he lived, when I heard a heavy step in the library, and a premonitory growl from old Puck, Mr. Stephens’ pet dog, an nounced the approach of a visitor. Presently the burly form and shining black face of a negro of giant proportions filled the dorway leading into the library; down upon the floor was thrown an old wool hat, and a deep voice, from a cavernous mouth, said, “Sarvent, Mars Aleck, how is you to day, Sar?” The visitor was the village black smith and Mr. Stephens greeted him with a familiar cordiality that proclaimed them good friends. “Come in! Come in! I have sent for you and need your help.” “Why, Mars Aleck! What can I do for you? Anything I can do to serve you will give me great pleasure, Sar.” “Well, I want you to open that safe in my library, there are important papers in there, I must have soon, and the lock is so rusty the key will not turn. Cut into it with a cold chisel if you cannot open it any other way.” “All right, Mars Aleck, I will examine it this arternoon, and tomorrow mornin’ will open it for you. Good arternoon, Sar.” The next morning as I sat and listened to Mr. Stephens as he gave me a resume of the accurate political situation then existing in Georgia as the people were striving to throw off the Bullock yoke, our village blacksmith again thrust his good-hu- By WM. LAURIE HILL. mored- phiz within the door with another, “Sar vant, Mars Aleck,” adding, “the safe is open, Sar.” “Open! You don’t tell me! How did you open it?” “Well, sar, I put some ile in the lock, Sar, and let the key soak in ile all night, and this mornin’ I just unlocked it.” “Well! well! You are a friend in need!” And Mr. Stephens reaching into his coat pocket, pro duced a large leather wallet with a flap, and, open ing it, produced a crisp five-dollar greenback, say ing: “Will this pay you for your trouble?” “Now, Mars Aleck, that is too much, it wan’t a whole hour’s work!” “Never mind about that, you did what I could not do, and talent and skill should be rewarded; if that is not enough, I will give you more.” “That’s a plenty, Mars Aleck, the greatest plen ty. Aon always would have your own way, Mars Aleck. Sarvent, Sar.” And picking up his old wool hat our blacksmith made his exit, wearing a broad smile. I was thinking of leaving the hospitable shelter of Liberty Hall by the early train, when “mine host” insisted that I should not do so, saying: “Don’t go this morning. General Toombs .will pass here on his way to Warren Court, and he al ways lunches with me. Stay at least until the noon train, for you must meet Toombs, and hear him talk.” To be asked to meet two of Georgia’s greatest men, and to listen to them discuss the issues of the day, needed no pursuasion, and I gladly availed myself of so favorable an opportunity. About eleven o’clock the train arrived, and soon General Toombs was seen walking up the path to Liberty Hall, and old Harry was not slow in ush ering him into the presence of his master. It was then I saw two giants meet—the one colossal in brain and stature, the other all mind with almost no impediment in the way of a body. The greeting of Mr. Toombs was cheery and hearty. 'How do you do, Aleck? Getting better, I hope. You must get out of this room and stir about among the peo ple, as I do.” “Ah, Toombs, ’tis easy for you, but that farm gate nearly crushed the life out of me, and I am getting better very slowly.” “Well, brace up! And you will soon be better. By the way, Aleck, I saw that man we won that suit for—the other day—and told him I thought it about time he was paying some fees.” “Well! What did he say, Toombs?” “Why, he paid me one thousand dollars on ac count, and I suppose we had as well divide as we go along,” and General Toombs produced another one of those large leather wallets, well packed with money, and, counting out five one hundred doller greenbacks, he passed them across the table to Mr. Stephens, who fishing into the pile of paper, pam phlets and stationery before him, drew out a little piece of paper not larger than his three fingers, wrote a receipt, and, passing it over, thus closed the transaction. Years have passed since that day at Liberty Hall, and the sage who presided so long there as master, and his distinguished guest, have finished their course, and now dwell in the spirit world. Their deeds live today, and we might well take the characters of these men, and blend them into one of those composite pictures that should stand for all that there is in a true statesman and pa triot. Mr. Stephens probably did more for the edu cation of the rising generation than any man in Georgia and did not seek to profit personally there by. Old Liberty Hall is today being used for the Stephens High School, ani nstitution that should be a seat of learning worthy the memory and name of Alexander H. Stephens. Miss Lola Lou Smith, the able principal of this institution, is anxious to build up a college here that shall stand for all that is high and ennobling in the way of education and The Golden Age for November 22, 1906. if the frends of Mr. Stephens all over Georgia will sustain her, the work will be well done. This insti tution will do more to keep green the memory of this great man than monuments of brass or marble that will crumble with the passing of the ages. “Weed well his grave, Ye men of goodness, For he was your fellow.” Atlanta, Ga. Funeral Financiering. The general ticket agent for the Southern rail road at Atlanta, Ga., has a colored man named Joe in his employ. Joe would probably make his mark as a financier. One day recently he called up the ticket agent by ’phone, and the following conver sation ensued: “Hello, hello! Do you know me?” “No. Who are you?” “Why, this is Joe.” “Joe? Joe who?” “Joe what works for you.” “Well, Joe, what do you want?” “I want to know what it will cost to bring a corpse from Macon to Atlanta and back.” “What do you mean?” asked the puzzled agent. “Mell,” replied Joe, “you see my brother Jim he lives in Macon, and he died last night, and I have a mother and seven brothers and sisters de pending on me. I’ve been tryin’ to figure if it will be cheaper to bring Jim here to see them or to take them there to see him.”—New York Press. She Was Worried. Some Oklahoma people here were low in their minds today about an outrage or two perpetrated on that territory by the Statehood bill. One of them was making quite a fuss about it, claiming things would be all wrong when the territory be comes a State. “Reminds me,” said Raconteur Oulahan, “of a thing that happened in my school days. We uesd to have a lecture every Friday afternoon, and one day the lecturer was a geological sharp and chose Niagara Falls for his topic. “He told us all about the geological formation of the falls, described the different periods that could be traced in the gorge, and then went on to say that the falls were slowly wearing back toward Buffalo, and that in the course of some 200,000 years they would have worn back to Erie, Pa., and that town would be left high and dry. Just then one of the girls in the class began to sob wildly. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked the teacher in alarm. “ ‘Oh,’ she wailed, ‘l’ve got a sister living in Erie.’ ” —New York World. Goldsmith Revived. A company was playing “She Stoops to Con quer” in a small Western town last winter, when a man without any money, wishing to see the show, stepped up to the box office and said: “Pass mo in, please.” The box office man gave a loud, harsh laugh. “Pass you in, what for?” he asked. The applicant drew himself up and answered haughtily: “What for? Why, because I am Oliver Gold smith, author of the play!” “Oh, I beg your pardon, sir!” replied the other in a shocked voice, as he hurriedly wrote out an or der for a box.—Argonaut. Gold Crown. Visiting Superintendent (to Sunday school) — “And now, my little friends, if you do all these things, some day you will wear a gold crown; yes, each one of you shall wear a gold crown.” Little Chap (on front seat) —“My fader wears one now.” Superintendent (remonstratingly)—“Oh, no!” Little Chap—“ Yes he does. He wears one on his toof.”—Exchange. 3